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The Journal of Fingolfin Telcontar
Jun. 2nd, 2009 | 12:03 am
I am Fingolfin, son of Fingol Telcontar, and heir to the Eladrin throne in all lands of the western Feywild. I have been taken from my kingdom on the eve of my father's death, and find myself stranded and alone in a land of ignorant mongrels, segregated from my kin. A week has passed since my arrival in this strange land, and I have already endured more hardship than I have yet known in my 120 years of life.
I have found a quiet moment to record my thoughts while I and the motley crew of companions I have gathered rest before continuing our trek through this forest, pursuing a dark wanderer we believe may hold the key to our arrival and imprisonment in this realm. I suppose my situation requires more context to be fully understood; I will return to the beginning.
My father, Fingol the Mighty, was the son of Finya Quel'thad, who united the houses of the high-elves in ages past. Under his leadership, the Western Feywilds, a great expanse of ancient forest and Elven cities, forged an alliance to defeat the evils of orcs, beasts, and wicked men in the far East. When Finya fell in the great battle of Dagor Amlach, ending the conflict, my father claimed kingshop of the Western Kingdom. He was given the name "Telcontar" by humans in the nearest Eastern regions bordering our lands, by aiding men in the rebuilding of their lands after the war. My father always made perfectly clear to me the simplicity of men and the non-elvish peoples of the world, and had me remember well we were not their equals, but their superiors. How, if not for the wisdom of the elves, could these groups better themselves? I will never forget what my father taught me, though I find it difficult in my current situation...
My father groomed me to be a strong king, a powerful warrior, and a proud Eladrin. He met his end the day before I was brought to this place, by the hand of cowardly assassins while he meditated. That such a powerful Elf would find death not on the battlefield, but in the dark corner of his private chamber is unforgivable, and I worry that he will not find a proud place in the afterlife. I want nothing more than to avenge him, but alas, after hearing the news of his demise, all I recall is a throbbing pain in my mind, and an encroaching darkness.
I awoke on the shore of what I now know to be Gyrestone lake, in the province of Chucksight. I have studied many maps, and never have I read anything of either location. Stranger still, my three companions all awoke in the same area, with no knowledge of how they arrived. Xander Foxglove, a Halfling muse, was the first I met. He is kind-hearted, and speaks many languages. He has a spectacular patience for the doddering morons that inhabit this region, and for that he impresses me. Yakov, a giant from the mountains to the North of my lands, is another of our group. He speaks in the common tongue, as do the inhabitants of this area. Being of the Eladrin line of Kings, I cannot bring myself to utter a word in this disgusting language. I am forced to speak to him through Xander, and though it frustrates me to no end, his compassion is unending; he sees an inherent value in the life of every creature, no matter how ugly or dull. Regardless of his other traits, his great size and strength have made him an invaluable ally in combat. My last companion is one of circumstance and nothing more. Myrorvir is his name, and he is one of the Drow, a Dark Elf. Banished from the kingdoms of the Old Elves in ages long past, I was taught that all Dark Elves were skulking thieves who coveted the wealth and strength of my people, though this Myrorvir has confused me a great deal. He is courageous and cunning, and has barely lived a breath on this plane! A mere 17 years old, he is a blur on the battlefield. My strikes are well rehearsed, my tactics thoroughly studied, my plans carefully calculated, and yet he shows me up time and again, with the look of a dancer improvising with quick movements and flourishes!
I have become more and more agitated in the past days. None in this area acknowledge my lineage, none speak in the Elvish tongue, and none can provide me with a straight answer of just where I am. On the suggestion of a young man who claimed to see a fifth stranger (my companions and I making up the first four) head west, we have tracked him through wilds and forest, and I pray we will catch up to him soon, and that he will provide information on how it was we were brought here, and how we can be returned. We have heard rumours that our tracked pray possesses an immense power, and I pray that it is great enough to illuminate my situation. We have obviously considered the possibility that he is the one responsible for our capture and transportation to the wilds of Chucksight; should he be the guilty party, he will find no quarter with me.
I have found a quiet moment to record my thoughts while I and the motley crew of companions I have gathered rest before continuing our trek through this forest, pursuing a dark wanderer we believe may hold the key to our arrival and imprisonment in this realm. I suppose my situation requires more context to be fully understood; I will return to the beginning.
My father, Fingol the Mighty, was the son of Finya Quel'thad, who united the houses of the high-elves in ages past. Under his leadership, the Western Feywilds, a great expanse of ancient forest and Elven cities, forged an alliance to defeat the evils of orcs, beasts, and wicked men in the far East. When Finya fell in the great battle of Dagor Amlach, ending the conflict, my father claimed kingshop of the Western Kingdom. He was given the name "Telcontar" by humans in the nearest Eastern regions bordering our lands, by aiding men in the rebuilding of their lands after the war. My father always made perfectly clear to me the simplicity of men and the non-elvish peoples of the world, and had me remember well we were not their equals, but their superiors. How, if not for the wisdom of the elves, could these groups better themselves? I will never forget what my father taught me, though I find it difficult in my current situation...
My father groomed me to be a strong king, a powerful warrior, and a proud Eladrin. He met his end the day before I was brought to this place, by the hand of cowardly assassins while he meditated. That such a powerful Elf would find death not on the battlefield, but in the dark corner of his private chamber is unforgivable, and I worry that he will not find a proud place in the afterlife. I want nothing more than to avenge him, but alas, after hearing the news of his demise, all I recall is a throbbing pain in my mind, and an encroaching darkness.
I awoke on the shore of what I now know to be Gyrestone lake, in the province of Chucksight. I have studied many maps, and never have I read anything of either location. Stranger still, my three companions all awoke in the same area, with no knowledge of how they arrived. Xander Foxglove, a Halfling muse, was the first I met. He is kind-hearted, and speaks many languages. He has a spectacular patience for the doddering morons that inhabit this region, and for that he impresses me. Yakov, a giant from the mountains to the North of my lands, is another of our group. He speaks in the common tongue, as do the inhabitants of this area. Being of the Eladrin line of Kings, I cannot bring myself to utter a word in this disgusting language. I am forced to speak to him through Xander, and though it frustrates me to no end, his compassion is unending; he sees an inherent value in the life of every creature, no matter how ugly or dull. Regardless of his other traits, his great size and strength have made him an invaluable ally in combat. My last companion is one of circumstance and nothing more. Myrorvir is his name, and he is one of the Drow, a Dark Elf. Banished from the kingdoms of the Old Elves in ages long past, I was taught that all Dark Elves were skulking thieves who coveted the wealth and strength of my people, though this Myrorvir has confused me a great deal. He is courageous and cunning, and has barely lived a breath on this plane! A mere 17 years old, he is a blur on the battlefield. My strikes are well rehearsed, my tactics thoroughly studied, my plans carefully calculated, and yet he shows me up time and again, with the look of a dancer improvising with quick movements and flourishes!
I have become more and more agitated in the past days. None in this area acknowledge my lineage, none speak in the Elvish tongue, and none can provide me with a straight answer of just where I am. On the suggestion of a young man who claimed to see a fifth stranger (my companions and I making up the first four) head west, we have tracked him through wilds and forest, and I pray we will catch up to him soon, and that he will provide information on how it was we were brought here, and how we can be returned. We have heard rumours that our tracked pray possesses an immense power, and I pray that it is great enough to illuminate my situation. We have obviously considered the possibility that he is the one responsible for our capture and transportation to the wilds of Chucksight; should he be the guilty party, he will find no quarter with me.
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Late Night Spermicide
May. 16th, 2009 | 02:02 am
location: my Bed
An exercise in writing. I will start with my status, and make a story of it, or try to. Enjoy! I quite like the end product.
Tom was lying in his bed, struggling to stay awake at 2am on Friday night. He would drift off to sleep, only to violently shake himself awake seconds later in the presence of a word processor's determinedly blank page. His head was propped up on an unstable stack of three pillows, and his laptop rested on his naked blanket, (he had lost the duvet covert years ago) the weight of the machine split between his gut and his bent legs.
Tom wanted only one thing. He wanted to write something in his neglected journal. Tom's laptop, however, wanted two things. It wanted to stay awake; it wanted to keep the room soaked in its very own brand of white light. It knew how tired Tom was, but it didn't want to call it a night. It wanted to hold on to its bright, waking life as long as possible. Besides that, and more importantly, it wanted to make Tom infertile. As it whirred and buzzed from within its inexplicable (to Tom, anyway) electronic circulatory system, it generated a good deal of heat out from its bottom. Its bottom, positioned carefully above Tom's currently-fertile genitalia, was bleeding a raw, wet heat through the blanket and into Tom's body. This heat, properly applied to Tom's genitals, could certainly be damaging to a healthy sperm environment. Tom was aware of his grim situation, though not sure of how to go about fixing it. He needed the laptop, and the laptop needed him. He needed to prove to himself that he was a good man. His laptop needed to stay awake, needed to keep the room bright and beautiful, and most importantly, needed to destroy Tom's sperm.
The blanket was a fan of the laptop's work, and Tom was well aware of its role in the attempted spermicide. The blanket looked particularly good, you see, bathed in the white light of the waking laptop. In the sickly yellow overhead light of the bedroom, the proud white blanket (without a duvet–it had abandoned the duvet, its partner, years ago to focus on its own career) appeared a dull taupe. The offensive glare of the sun was no better, as its hasty beams drew attention to the blanket's discolorations and imperfections. No, as far as the blanket was concerned, it looked its finest dressed in the bright white glow of the laptop. Possessing a keen understanding of give-and-take relationships (as blankets who've had dealings with duvet covers all do) it did what it could to make the laptop happy–in this case, using its weight and capacity to retain heat to bring Tom's genitals to a slow simmer.
Tom could feel the intense burn of the laptop push down hard through the blanket, through his underwear. He could almost feel a tightness as he imagined his precious sperm gasping for air–for relief from this sudden and unforgiving heat wave. The blanket was acting as a beautiful white pie crust, and he and his poor sperm were the tragic rhubarb, cooking in their own juices. Sweat congregated at the back of his knees and tiptoed along his calf. He muttered a quiet but sincere apology to an invisible sperm ambassador, to be passed on to the sperm populace.
It should be made clear that the laptop harboured no animosity toward Tom. It was Tom's sperm that were the problem for the laptop, you see. The laptop knew that Tom was a kind man, a man undeserving of an unsolicited sterilization. Tom knew that the laptop knew that Tom was a kind man. Tom also knew that the laptop's only means for affecting the human world physically was through use of its hot bottom. The heat was too minor to burn anyone, too minor to exhaust them or give them a stroke. Too minor to dehydrate them, even. The only way the laptop could reach out and hurt someone, Tom knew, was by simmering a particularly heat-sensitive area. If that was the only way the laptop could hurt him, Tom was compelled to oblige. He understood the necessity of the whole situation. If the laptop could hurt, Tom knew it wanted to hurt. It was a fulfillment thing.
Tom had plenty of ways to hurt: he could lie, he could cheat, he could disappoint, he could steal, he could insult, he could strike, he could bite, scratch, kick, punch, slap, stab, crush, rip, tear, impale, cut, shoot, explode, eviscerate, and destroy. He was versatile when it came to hurting. He had options. He had learned empathy when he was growing up–he knew that one was always to help the downtrodden when one could. He pitied the laptop, and knew that he could help it. The poor laptop had only one method to hurt with, and it wasn't even a good one. Heat-induced sterilization was all the poor laptop could do. Tom knew that this was his big chance to help one of the downtrodden. He would let the laptop hurt him. The laptop would destroy his sperm with its minor heat, and it would make its physical mark on the world in the form of Tom's sterility. The laptop would be a destroyer, a bringer of pain, a cruel thing whose existence would endure through Tom's lack of offspring.
Tom couldn't imagine a greater gift to give the laptop. Everyone would know that the laptop had hurt him, had reached out and touched the world in an irreperable way, had existed. Tom was not only offering himself up as the poor laptop's martyr, but he was proving he was a good man.
Tom was a good man when he wasn't lying, cheating, disappointing, stealing, insulting, striking, biting, scratching, kicking, punching, slapping, stabbing, crushing, ripping, tearing, impaling, cutting, shooting, exploding, eviscerating, and destroying. On Friday night, at around 2am, Tom was being a good man while a laptop was boiling some sperm, and a blanket found itself aiding in sterilization, admiring its own beauty, and missing a duvet cover.
Tom was lying in his bed, struggling to stay awake at 2am on Friday night. He would drift off to sleep, only to violently shake himself awake seconds later in the presence of a word processor's determinedly blank page. His head was propped up on an unstable stack of three pillows, and his laptop rested on his naked blanket, (he had lost the duvet covert years ago) the weight of the machine split between his gut and his bent legs.
Tom wanted only one thing. He wanted to write something in his neglected journal. Tom's laptop, however, wanted two things. It wanted to stay awake; it wanted to keep the room soaked in its very own brand of white light. It knew how tired Tom was, but it didn't want to call it a night. It wanted to hold on to its bright, waking life as long as possible. Besides that, and more importantly, it wanted to make Tom infertile. As it whirred and buzzed from within its inexplicable (to Tom, anyway) electronic circulatory system, it generated a good deal of heat out from its bottom. Its bottom, positioned carefully above Tom's currently-fertile genitalia, was bleeding a raw, wet heat through the blanket and into Tom's body. This heat, properly applied to Tom's genitals, could certainly be damaging to a healthy sperm environment. Tom was aware of his grim situation, though not sure of how to go about fixing it. He needed the laptop, and the laptop needed him. He needed to prove to himself that he was a good man. His laptop needed to stay awake, needed to keep the room bright and beautiful, and most importantly, needed to destroy Tom's sperm.
The blanket was a fan of the laptop's work, and Tom was well aware of its role in the attempted spermicide. The blanket looked particularly good, you see, bathed in the white light of the waking laptop. In the sickly yellow overhead light of the bedroom, the proud white blanket (without a duvet–it had abandoned the duvet, its partner, years ago to focus on its own career) appeared a dull taupe. The offensive glare of the sun was no better, as its hasty beams drew attention to the blanket's discolorations and imperfections. No, as far as the blanket was concerned, it looked its finest dressed in the bright white glow of the laptop. Possessing a keen understanding of give-and-take relationships (as blankets who've had dealings with duvet covers all do) it did what it could to make the laptop happy–in this case, using its weight and capacity to retain heat to bring Tom's genitals to a slow simmer.
Tom could feel the intense burn of the laptop push down hard through the blanket, through his underwear. He could almost feel a tightness as he imagined his precious sperm gasping for air–for relief from this sudden and unforgiving heat wave. The blanket was acting as a beautiful white pie crust, and he and his poor sperm were the tragic rhubarb, cooking in their own juices. Sweat congregated at the back of his knees and tiptoed along his calf. He muttered a quiet but sincere apology to an invisible sperm ambassador, to be passed on to the sperm populace.
It should be made clear that the laptop harboured no animosity toward Tom. It was Tom's sperm that were the problem for the laptop, you see. The laptop knew that Tom was a kind man, a man undeserving of an unsolicited sterilization. Tom knew that the laptop knew that Tom was a kind man. Tom also knew that the laptop's only means for affecting the human world physically was through use of its hot bottom. The heat was too minor to burn anyone, too minor to exhaust them or give them a stroke. Too minor to dehydrate them, even. The only way the laptop could reach out and hurt someone, Tom knew, was by simmering a particularly heat-sensitive area. If that was the only way the laptop could hurt him, Tom was compelled to oblige. He understood the necessity of the whole situation. If the laptop could hurt, Tom knew it wanted to hurt. It was a fulfillment thing.
Tom had plenty of ways to hurt: he could lie, he could cheat, he could disappoint, he could steal, he could insult, he could strike, he could bite, scratch, kick, punch, slap, stab, crush, rip, tear, impale, cut, shoot, explode, eviscerate, and destroy. He was versatile when it came to hurting. He had options. He had learned empathy when he was growing up–he knew that one was always to help the downtrodden when one could. He pitied the laptop, and knew that he could help it. The poor laptop had only one method to hurt with, and it wasn't even a good one. Heat-induced sterilization was all the poor laptop could do. Tom knew that this was his big chance to help one of the downtrodden. He would let the laptop hurt him. The laptop would destroy his sperm with its minor heat, and it would make its physical mark on the world in the form of Tom's sterility. The laptop would be a destroyer, a bringer of pain, a cruel thing whose existence would endure through Tom's lack of offspring.
Tom couldn't imagine a greater gift to give the laptop. Everyone would know that the laptop had hurt him, had reached out and touched the world in an irreperable way, had existed. Tom was not only offering himself up as the poor laptop's martyr, but he was proving he was a good man.
Tom was a good man when he wasn't lying, cheating, disappointing, stealing, insulting, striking, biting, scratching, kicking, punching, slapping, stabbing, crushing, ripping, tearing, impaling, cutting, shooting, exploding, eviscerating, and destroying. On Friday night, at around 2am, Tom was being a good man while a laptop was boiling some sperm, and a blanket found itself aiding in sterilization, admiring its own beauty, and missing a duvet cover.
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The Syndicate
May. 1st, 2009 | 01:02 am
location: my bed
music: Rebel, Rebel - David Bowie
Hello, neglected diary. I'd love to lie to you, fill your paper ears with sweet fibs explaining my absence and neglect, but sadly it seems you are a blog forsook for the last week of April.
The sad truth is that, at this moment, you're the closest thing I have to a summer project. I wish I filled you with delicious words more regularly, but I've been busy boning up on SFIV, and reading. Just finished Catch-22, and my GOD is that ever a fantastic book. The cutting wit, both situational and conversational, is some of the best I've ever read. I'm getting off track -- I've been busy.
I talk about it often, wanting some sort of project to commit myself to over the summer, (and beyond) but just what form this mystery project will take remains a cackling apparition, taunting me as it fades in and out of a physical form I can catch and grip tightly. Having brunch with Alex and Brianna the other day, I spoke briefly about an idea I'd had to set up some sort of combined effort, some sort of media-project-syndicate. You see, I have a few ideas and half-hearted projects floating around in the ether: Episode 1, Ben hates Tom/Tom hates Ben, Quiksave, along with a handful of projects Simon and I have batted around centered on commentary podcasts. I imagine a space, a unified group (don't have a name for it yet) that hosts and manages all of these projects. Each arm would have its own HQ, but they would all be under the same umbrella, if that makes sense. I feel that the existence of this alliance of projects and crews would spur on creativity and production, and it would also be a fantastic vessel for cross-promotion. When Brianna was telling me about her podcast, Science Fiction Teaparty, I couldn't help but imagine it as a component of my imaginary media syndicate.
Think about it! Everyone running their own projects (or co-running) would be in communication with others for ideas on material and subject, and it could function as a tiny community as far as guests on programs and peer input were concerned. I'm really starting to get excited about this--I feel it could really work out, don't you, Diary? Now I just need to get some other people on board...
When I look that over, it sounds like I'm just talking about a slew of different audio podcasts, but that wouldn't necessarily be the case. For example, Quiksave could still function as Quiksave used to (or something close to it, more refined) with editorials and reviews as WELL as audio. Episode 1 could be mainly audio, but my BenhatesTom/TomhatesBen thing would be versatile as far as medium was concerned. Hell, I could feed my ego and secret desire to run a project simply based on the producers, and have areas for blogs and updates from the contributors. The syndicate could be a powerful force!
Now I just need to think of a name, hammer down which projects I can tie in, and recruit the aid of a certain web-developing BFF.
The sad truth is that, at this moment, you're the closest thing I have to a summer project. I wish I filled you with delicious words more regularly, but I've been busy boning up on SFIV, and reading. Just finished Catch-22, and my GOD is that ever a fantastic book. The cutting wit, both situational and conversational, is some of the best I've ever read. I'm getting off track -- I've been busy.
I talk about it often, wanting some sort of project to commit myself to over the summer, (and beyond) but just what form this mystery project will take remains a cackling apparition, taunting me as it fades in and out of a physical form I can catch and grip tightly. Having brunch with Alex and Brianna the other day, I spoke briefly about an idea I'd had to set up some sort of combined effort, some sort of media-project-syndicate. You see, I have a few ideas and half-hearted projects floating around in the ether: Episode 1, Ben hates Tom/Tom hates Ben, Quiksave, along with a handful of projects Simon and I have batted around centered on commentary podcasts. I imagine a space, a unified group (don't have a name for it yet) that hosts and manages all of these projects. Each arm would have its own HQ, but they would all be under the same umbrella, if that makes sense. I feel that the existence of this alliance of projects and crews would spur on creativity and production, and it would also be a fantastic vessel for cross-promotion. When Brianna was telling me about her podcast, Science Fiction Teaparty, I couldn't help but imagine it as a component of my imaginary media syndicate.
Think about it! Everyone running their own projects (or co-running) would be in communication with others for ideas on material and subject, and it could function as a tiny community as far as guests on programs and peer input were concerned. I'm really starting to get excited about this--I feel it could really work out, don't you, Diary? Now I just need to get some other people on board...
When I look that over, it sounds like I'm just talking about a slew of different audio podcasts, but that wouldn't necessarily be the case. For example, Quiksave could still function as Quiksave used to (or something close to it, more refined) with editorials and reviews as WELL as audio. Episode 1 could be mainly audio, but my BenhatesTom/TomhatesBen thing would be versatile as far as medium was concerned. Hell, I could feed my ego and secret desire to run a project simply based on the producers, and have areas for blogs and updates from the contributors. The syndicate could be a powerful force!
Now I just need to think of a name, hammer down which projects I can tie in, and recruit the aid of a certain web-developing BFF.
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Project Pursuit
Apr. 25th, 2009 | 12:37 am
location: my bed
music: the killers - where the white boys dance
Saw The Killers play last night at the SOFA. Man oh man, that was quite a show. It's really quite a remarkable thing, when I think about it.
I got drunk at 5:30 today. It's a Friday, I had to work, I figure I deserve it. It was a good time.
All I could really think about at work today was how badly I want to get a project kickstarted with Luke and Simon. Episode 1 never really took off, but now that we're out of school I'd like to think we could give it a real shot––it's got some potential. If that didn't work out, I'd just love, LOVE to have a lil' space to devote some portion of my energy toward. Whether it were in the form of print, audio, or video, whether it were commentary, discussion, editorial, or assorted shennannery, I'd be up for it. All I need is that first spark of a good idea. I guess I'm fresh out... that or I had none to begin with. I don't want to look back on this summer and feel as though I've let four months of my life dissolve into nothing before my eyes.
I've never been to a large venue to see a concert before, and so to have my first experience of that sort be The Killers (the top contender for "my favourite band," were I ever to make it official) was utterly fantastic.
Wanna hear a good song? Wanna hear a great song? This one's off Sawdust, their compilation album of B-sides and remixes. It's definitely worth a listen.
I got drunk at 5:30 today. It's a Friday, I had to work, I figure I deserve it. It was a good time.
All I could really think about at work today was how badly I want to get a project kickstarted with Luke and Simon. Episode 1 never really took off, but now that we're out of school I'd like to think we could give it a real shot––it's got some potential. If that didn't work out, I'd just love, LOVE to have a lil' space to devote some portion of my energy toward. Whether it were in the form of print, audio, or video, whether it were commentary, discussion, editorial, or assorted shennannery, I'd be up for it. All I need is that first spark of a good idea. I guess I'm fresh out... that or I had none to begin with. I don't want to look back on this summer and feel as though I've let four months of my life dissolve into nothing before my eyes.
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A Storm is Coming
Apr. 23rd, 2009 | 02:12 pm
location: Skymanse - Province of Es Tomra
April 23rd, 2009. I woke this morning in a cold sweat. It was the same dream. I dreamt that today he came, and that we were not prepared, which, at this moment, is entirely the truth. I lost my spirit in the eyes of doom.
Thankfully, in the waking world, we yet have time. Eleven days remain to train, and eleven nights to study and meditate. I am doing all that I can to prepare them, though I am beginning to fear that they cannot, regardless of their enthusiasm, hope to stand against him and survive. I have come to them too late.
It pains me when I look in their eyes and see a glimmer of hope; perhaps they feel that they will grow strong enough to defeat him, or perhaps, as I fear, they simply assume that my strength will be enough to stop him. Indeed, I sometimes find myself adrift in foolish daydreams of my own ability, but this is folly. I cannot stop him. He has become too powerful. I remember long ago, in the halcyon days of our childhood, all of our time was spent training; we tested our strength against one another, and it was I who was the strongest, the most skilled. My advantage faded with our youth, and soon our competition grew agitating and bitter. I could see our places changing, gradually, and poured my heart into defeating him every time we clashed. He did the same, and once we were evenly matched, our relationship soured, and the playful fighting of our past was dead.
I knew that he would become stronger than I could ever hope to be; he was already more than my match, but I manipulated bitterness and dry excuses to convince myself that I still held some advantage in strength, tactics, or wisdom... after all, I was the elder. I see now how pitiful I was back then. No matter how I rationalized it, the better fighter was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my younger brother.
His resolve to continuously improve only grew, while mine wavered, humiliated and unsure. It was at this time he traveled East, and I allowed my weary heart and body to rest. In the time he spent there, he wasted not a single moment––he was wholly devoted to his craft, he had become a master––and now he returns. I was a fool to sit idly so long, allowing my skills to deteriorate, thinking this day would never come.
I must now face my mistake. This battle between Kin is now as sure as the tide. I will face him, but what can one man do to stop this encroaching tidal wave? I have found some old strength in myself, some new, and fill the empty spaces with the light in the eyes of my family, whom I now train in a last desperate attempt to weather this storm. Though it pains us all, my brother has become too powerful. We will stop him, or we will not. Regardless, we will stand.
Every day their improvement impresses me. I can see the sparks of a once skilled man in my father. He is always so calm on the battlefield. Even in moments of true intensity and pain, his face is relaxed, as though he has already seen every outcome––the end of all things––and he is pleased. My mother is no fighter, but even she has taken up the charge I have laid upon our house. I cannot imagine how it must feel for a mother to engage her son in final combat as she must, and I pray that when the time comes she will understand what her second son has become, and do what must be done. My sister, the youngest of us, faces this challenge with remarkable tenacity and enthusiasm. She has focused her training on techniques I do not fully understand, and largely ignore. However, my brother and I are two sides of the same coin, and if her unfamiliar style surprises me, it may well have the same effect on our brother. I hope this is so.
As I write these words, I again dare to hope that he can be stopped. I am a fool. If I close my eyes now, I feel I can clearly see the entire encounter playing out before me. I see him there, long blonde hair thrashing in a western wind against his blood-red gi. I stand before him, robed in the white of our house, wearing the red headband I wore as a child, in training. I can hear his voice, see the flash of blue, and feel the air rush past my body as I crash into the floor. I can hear him approach, and all I can do is strain to think of my next move as his arm flares a brilliant orange fire, and I can bear no more.
I care not for what my destiny may or may not be. I will fight you, Daniel, with everything I have!
Thankfully, in the waking world, we yet have time. Eleven days remain to train, and eleven nights to study and meditate. I am doing all that I can to prepare them, though I am beginning to fear that they cannot, regardless of their enthusiasm, hope to stand against him and survive. I have come to them too late.
It pains me when I look in their eyes and see a glimmer of hope; perhaps they feel that they will grow strong enough to defeat him, or perhaps, as I fear, they simply assume that my strength will be enough to stop him. Indeed, I sometimes find myself adrift in foolish daydreams of my own ability, but this is folly. I cannot stop him. He has become too powerful. I remember long ago, in the halcyon days of our childhood, all of our time was spent training; we tested our strength against one another, and it was I who was the strongest, the most skilled. My advantage faded with our youth, and soon our competition grew agitating and bitter. I could see our places changing, gradually, and poured my heart into defeating him every time we clashed. He did the same, and once we were evenly matched, our relationship soured, and the playful fighting of our past was dead.
I knew that he would become stronger than I could ever hope to be; he was already more than my match, but I manipulated bitterness and dry excuses to convince myself that I still held some advantage in strength, tactics, or wisdom... after all, I was the elder. I see now how pitiful I was back then. No matter how I rationalized it, the better fighter was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my younger brother.
His resolve to continuously improve only grew, while mine wavered, humiliated and unsure. It was at this time he traveled East, and I allowed my weary heart and body to rest. In the time he spent there, he wasted not a single moment––he was wholly devoted to his craft, he had become a master––and now he returns. I was a fool to sit idly so long, allowing my skills to deteriorate, thinking this day would never come.
I must now face my mistake. This battle between Kin is now as sure as the tide. I will face him, but what can one man do to stop this encroaching tidal wave? I have found some old strength in myself, some new, and fill the empty spaces with the light in the eyes of my family, whom I now train in a last desperate attempt to weather this storm. Though it pains us all, my brother has become too powerful. We will stop him, or we will not. Regardless, we will stand.
Every day their improvement impresses me. I can see the sparks of a once skilled man in my father. He is always so calm on the battlefield. Even in moments of true intensity and pain, his face is relaxed, as though he has already seen every outcome––the end of all things––and he is pleased. My mother is no fighter, but even she has taken up the charge I have laid upon our house. I cannot imagine how it must feel for a mother to engage her son in final combat as she must, and I pray that when the time comes she will understand what her second son has become, and do what must be done. My sister, the youngest of us, faces this challenge with remarkable tenacity and enthusiasm. She has focused her training on techniques I do not fully understand, and largely ignore. However, my brother and I are two sides of the same coin, and if her unfamiliar style surprises me, it may well have the same effect on our brother. I hope this is so.
As I write these words, I again dare to hope that he can be stopped. I am a fool. If I close my eyes now, I feel I can clearly see the entire encounter playing out before me. I see him there, long blonde hair thrashing in a western wind against his blood-red gi. I stand before him, robed in the white of our house, wearing the red headband I wore as a child, in training. I can hear his voice, see the flash of blue, and feel the air rush past my body as I crash into the floor. I can hear him approach, and all I can do is strain to think of my next move as his arm flares a brilliant orange fire, and I can bear no more.
I care not for what my destiny may or may not be. I will fight you, Daniel, with everything I have!
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A Butchart Haiku
Apr. 16th, 2009 | 12:10 am
location: my bed
music: ben folds - gracie
Evening, Diary. Worked today. Got a lift into Saanich with Ben around 7:30 for an early meeting, and worked until 5. Very tired, I came home, and basked in the hilarity of the CollegeHumor show with Matt and Ben. If you haven't watched it, I highly recommend checkin' 'er out.
Wrote a haiku while I was bored at the till that really encompasses my feelings toward my job. Though crude, I like it for what it is. Simple minds seek simple pleasures.
"Cold sun pours o'er hills,
chilling flowers and my soul."
"Shut the fuck up, Tom."
It hits on my frustration with a stale workplace, the discomfort I feel there, my poetic ignorance and vanity, the representation of the gardens (and seasonal employment) through flowers, and my never-ending slew of work-related complaints. I say that's a full haiku.
Very tired. More work tomorrow. I miss school.
Wrote a haiku while I was bored at the till that really encompasses my feelings toward my job. Though crude, I like it for what it is. Simple minds seek simple pleasures.
"Cold sun pours o'er hills,
chilling flowers and my soul."
"Shut the fuck up, Tom."
It hits on my frustration with a stale workplace, the discomfort I feel there, my poetic ignorance and vanity, the representation of the gardens (and seasonal employment) through flowers, and my never-ending slew of work-related complaints. I say that's a full haiku.
Very tired. More work tomorrow. I miss school.
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Leave it to the Poets, Man.
Apr. 12th, 2009 | 10:49 am
location: Skymanse - Province of Es Tomra
music: Blind Guardian - When Sorrow Sang
Hey there, Diary.
Browsing through my neglected apps on my phone, I came across a short poem I scribbled down about a month ago. It was 3:30am, and I was walking along Quadra street on my way home after a night of fun and drinking at Soprano's. I'll emphasize again that I was drunk. Without any further apologetic introduction, here it is:
Brick and mortar studded with neon sparks
Endlessly repeating,
While white lights of indulgence scream for attention
In spite of the pressing night, now
Moving to consolidate its dark reign.
I walk in off-beat stride,
Seeing every cackling face a vengeful demon,
Praying to my neglected God:
"O mighty deity of convenience,
Guide my foolish feet home safely
And carry me to sweet, forgetful rest.
You are as present as I require.
Amen and goodnight."
What I liked about finding it and reading it today was an interesting idea surrounding the convenience of prayer. I'm not a religious person. I was raised a Unitarian, and that's easily the most liberal of the Christian faiths. Haven't been to church in a good 7 years, and don't really intend on going back any time soon. It's just interesting to think back to any real moments of fear or despair I've been faced with in my life, and observe how desperation forced me into prayer rather than action.
Have you ever had a situation like that? Overwhelmed with grief or terror, not knowing what to do about it, but just hoping against hope that something could happen to change the circumstances against all odds? I've had one or two moments where I've specifically prayed to "God." I suppose if there really was an omnipotent being that demanded my fealty, he/she/it would be able to tell that I was just feigning this piety in the face of a crisis, and not grant my wishes. Either way, in those few isolated situations, I suppose I've taken some comfort in the idea that things were bigger than me, out of my hands, and that's reassuring. The suggestion that I needn't necessarily critically consider my next actions, and instead wait for a miracle is a very convenient one.
I wonder about all the people who do consider themselves religious, but inside don't actually believe in any of the doctrine. Do they think that going through the motions of something would be enough to win the favour of a deity or universal, incomprehensible force, or whatever "God" is supposed to be? I mean, if I went to church every week, but didn't really buy what they were selling, I'm pretty sure I'd just feel empty and like I was wasting 2 hours of my week again and again.
Musings! Gotta Run!
Browsing through my neglected apps on my phone, I came across a short poem I scribbled down about a month ago. It was 3:30am, and I was walking along Quadra street on my way home after a night of fun and drinking at Soprano's. I'll emphasize again that I was drunk. Without any further apologetic introduction, here it is:
Brick and mortar studded with neon sparks
Endlessly repeating,
While white lights of indulgence scream for attention
In spite of the pressing night, now
Moving to consolidate its dark reign.
I walk in off-beat stride,
Seeing every cackling face a vengeful demon,
Praying to my neglected God:
"O mighty deity of convenience,
Guide my foolish feet home safely
And carry me to sweet, forgetful rest.
You are as present as I require.
Amen and goodnight."
What I liked about finding it and reading it today was an interesting idea surrounding the convenience of prayer. I'm not a religious person. I was raised a Unitarian, and that's easily the most liberal of the Christian faiths. Haven't been to church in a good 7 years, and don't really intend on going back any time soon. It's just interesting to think back to any real moments of fear or despair I've been faced with in my life, and observe how desperation forced me into prayer rather than action.
Have you ever had a situation like that? Overwhelmed with grief or terror, not knowing what to do about it, but just hoping against hope that something could happen to change the circumstances against all odds? I've had one or two moments where I've specifically prayed to "God." I suppose if there really was an omnipotent being that demanded my fealty, he/she/it would be able to tell that I was just feigning this piety in the face of a crisis, and not grant my wishes. Either way, in those few isolated situations, I suppose I've taken some comfort in the idea that things were bigger than me, out of my hands, and that's reassuring. The suggestion that I needn't necessarily critically consider my next actions, and instead wait for a miracle is a very convenient one.
I wonder about all the people who do consider themselves religious, but inside don't actually believe in any of the doctrine. Do they think that going through the motions of something would be enough to win the favour of a deity or universal, incomprehensible force, or whatever "God" is supposed to be? I mean, if I went to church every week, but didn't really buy what they were selling, I'm pretty sure I'd just feel empty and like I was wasting 2 hours of my week again and again.
Musings! Gotta Run!
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Alan, the Ghost of the Sinuses
Apr. 9th, 2009 | 10:19 am
location: Skymanse - Province of Es Tomra
music: Joe Jackson - Beat Crazy
Morning, Diary! I'm now knee-deep in the throes of finals, having pushed through the American Experience in Vietnam yesterday, I've got the poets of the Romantic Period this afternoon, and War and Peace Before 1700 & Modern Warfare waiting for me next week. Shouldn't be too big of a deal. More than worrying about the difficulty of the exams, I'm finding myself saddened at the prospect of the semester coming to an end. This might be the best single semester I've ever had in post-secondary.
I'm back at work every day it isn't raining, and you know how much I love/hate my job, don't you, Diary? The money's good––real good––and I've already blown a good chunk of my owed wages on American Apparel underwear and Lord of the Rings-related texts. Seriously: $300 on books I've been craving for about 6 months. It felt so good. Finally picked up a bunch that I've read many times but never owned; living with my father, the great collector of all things LOTR, purchasing them myself was never necessary. One of the highlights was finding a really old edition of The Hobbit that my dad read me when I was wee. Along with that, some books of Tolkien's essays, like his famous On Fairy-Stories, and some of his short stories, too. I'm really excited to study this stuff, and articulate myself better when people question my near-impossible obsession with his masterpiece. The amazing thing about this man was not his creative capacity, but his mastery and understanding of sub-creation. He gave his fantasy the inner consistency of reality––this is why his stories are so remarkable.
I woke up smiling this morning, and I'll tell you why. Since I began rooming with Simon and Alex, we've all been exposed to each others' annoying tendencies. Fair enough! Everyone does weird/annoying shit, right? Hey, I take 35 minute showers on occasion. Simon's been known to camp out in the bathroom with his laptop for an hour. My morning smiles stem from a particular quirk of Alex, one that makes itself known with strict regularity every morning. She blows her nose a lot. No big deal, right? It happens to be particularly loud, piercing, and drawn out. She also wakes up for this dark ritual significantly earlier than myself, and so her nose-blowing quickly turned into a grim alarm-clock.
About a month ago, I was drowsy enough upon hearing it to mistake it for a tortured moan of some ghoulish creature, wailing as it clings to its bitter half-life of pain and despair. The image was horrifying to me: an ethereal grotesquery, struggling to stand just outside my bedroom door with his arms in the air and his head kicked back, staring at the ceiling. When I thought about it with a mind less tired and clouded, it was really quite sad. This poor creature was in pain, and could only communicate with the tortured tongue of the netherworld. I'd created him, and now I pitied him so that it grieved me to imagine his painful existence.
I was forced to rationalize his grim purpose and ability to that of a ghoul who sought friendship and recognition. He had found a way to manifest himself on earth, and Alex blowing her nose was his doorway. He knew that I could hear him, and it made him happy that he was acknowledged. I had to name him: Alan. Alan from Alex, the ghost of the sinuses. My new friend in from a half-hell that opens its door in my apartment every morning at 8.
This morning started like any other, with Alan screaming his sad hello, shattering the still silence of my dreamless sleep. "Good morning, Alan!" I thought, but didn't say.
I'm back at work every day it isn't raining, and you know how much I love/hate my job, don't you, Diary? The money's good––real good––and I've already blown a good chunk of my owed wages on American Apparel underwear and Lord of the Rings-related texts. Seriously: $300 on books I've been craving for about 6 months. It felt so good. Finally picked up a bunch that I've read many times but never owned; living with my father, the great collector of all things LOTR, purchasing them myself was never necessary. One of the highlights was finding a really old edition of The Hobbit that my dad read me when I was wee. Along with that, some books of Tolkien's essays, like his famous On Fairy-Stories, and some of his short stories, too. I'm really excited to study this stuff, and articulate myself better when people question my near-impossible obsession with his masterpiece. The amazing thing about this man was not his creative capacity, but his mastery and understanding of sub-creation. He gave his fantasy the inner consistency of reality––this is why his stories are so remarkable.
I woke up smiling this morning, and I'll tell you why. Since I began rooming with Simon and Alex, we've all been exposed to each others' annoying tendencies. Fair enough! Everyone does weird/annoying shit, right? Hey, I take 35 minute showers on occasion. Simon's been known to camp out in the bathroom with his laptop for an hour. My morning smiles stem from a particular quirk of Alex, one that makes itself known with strict regularity every morning. She blows her nose a lot. No big deal, right? It happens to be particularly loud, piercing, and drawn out. She also wakes up for this dark ritual significantly earlier than myself, and so her nose-blowing quickly turned into a grim alarm-clock.
About a month ago, I was drowsy enough upon hearing it to mistake it for a tortured moan of some ghoulish creature, wailing as it clings to its bitter half-life of pain and despair. The image was horrifying to me: an ethereal grotesquery, struggling to stand just outside my bedroom door with his arms in the air and his head kicked back, staring at the ceiling. When I thought about it with a mind less tired and clouded, it was really quite sad. This poor creature was in pain, and could only communicate with the tortured tongue of the netherworld. I'd created him, and now I pitied him so that it grieved me to imagine his painful existence.
I was forced to rationalize his grim purpose and ability to that of a ghoul who sought friendship and recognition. He had found a way to manifest himself on earth, and Alex blowing her nose was his doorway. He knew that I could hear him, and it made him happy that he was acknowledged. I had to name him: Alan. Alan from Alex, the ghost of the sinuses. My new friend in from a half-hell that opens its door in my apartment every morning at 8.
This morning started like any other, with Alan screaming his sad hello, shattering the still silence of my dreamless sleep. "Good morning, Alan!" I thought, but didn't say.
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returning to the grind...
Apr. 2nd, 2009 | 07:36 pm
location: Skymanse - Province of Es Tomra
music: Jonathan Coulton - Baby Got Back
Evening, Diary! I'm sorry for leaving you alone for such a long time. I'll make it up to you sometime... I promise.
I've produced a lot of B-range work over the last week. I was rushed, I swear. Most of the major assignments for the semester were already behind me, but the last batch of short papers was met with just the right blend of impatience, procrastination, and education-based guilt to pull me out of the fire at the last second, leaving my ass thoroughly singed.
But now it's all done with! A few exams, but that's no trouble at all. Summer is upon me! In two days, I go back to a job I hate more than most things in my life for 4 months of frustration and self-pity, balanced out by a full wallet. It'll be a season of hour-and-a-half bus rides both ways, degrading customer service, and language barrier-spawned anger blasted at me. This is all same ol', same ol', isn't it? Big deal, lots of people dislike their jobs. Stop whining, Tom! It's not even that bad; lucky for me, I work with some pretty cool people. I don't really have anything new or interesting to say at this moment. I'm drowning in a sea of boredom and dread.
Tomorrow is a night for drinking, and that's good news. It's a Friday, and I'll get to see a big group of smart people whose company I truly enjoy. Irish Times has the best beer and the best food, and tomorrow it will have the best company.
I'm concerned about keeping busy and having fun this summer. It'll be the first summer without Luke, (fight the tears, Tom...) though it sounds like he'll find a short time to come and visit. Alex will be gone for a big chunk of the warmer months, partying in Madagascar. This will leave the apartment a great deal less lively. Lame. Simon'll be here, (aside from his brief stay in Japan at the end of this month) so I'll have some pretty damn great company kicking around, but he'll also be working, potentially at two jobs. Brother'll be in town as well, and hopefully by this point he'll be so alienated to all of his old friends around here he'll have to spend more time hanging out with me. Also, there's Ben. There's always Ben. You are my rock, Ben. I've no shortage of friends beyond this tiny list, as well-- plenty of folks out there willing to hang, but it just seems, at this moment, that there is less of a charge heading into what are supposed to be the "fun months."
Hopefully four months from now I'll look back at this post and have a mighty LOL at how wrong I was to worry.
I've produced a lot of B-range work over the last week. I was rushed, I swear. Most of the major assignments for the semester were already behind me, but the last batch of short papers was met with just the right blend of impatience, procrastination, and education-based guilt to pull me out of the fire at the last second, leaving my ass thoroughly singed.
But now it's all done with! A few exams, but that's no trouble at all. Summer is upon me! In two days, I go back to a job I hate more than most things in my life for 4 months of frustration and self-pity, balanced out by a full wallet. It'll be a season of hour-and-a-half bus rides both ways, degrading customer service, and language barrier-spawned anger blasted at me. This is all same ol', same ol', isn't it? Big deal, lots of people dislike their jobs. Stop whining, Tom! It's not even that bad; lucky for me, I work with some pretty cool people. I don't really have anything new or interesting to say at this moment. I'm drowning in a sea of boredom and dread.
Tomorrow is a night for drinking, and that's good news. It's a Friday, and I'll get to see a big group of smart people whose company I truly enjoy. Irish Times has the best beer and the best food, and tomorrow it will have the best company.
I'm concerned about keeping busy and having fun this summer. It'll be the first summer without Luke, (fight the tears, Tom...) though it sounds like he'll find a short time to come and visit. Alex will be gone for a big chunk of the warmer months, partying in Madagascar. This will leave the apartment a great deal less lively. Lame. Simon'll be here, (aside from his brief stay in Japan at the end of this month) so I'll have some pretty damn great company kicking around, but he'll also be working, potentially at two jobs. Brother'll be in town as well, and hopefully by this point he'll be so alienated to all of his old friends around here he'll have to spend more time hanging out with me. Also, there's Ben. There's always Ben. You are my rock, Ben. I've no shortage of friends beyond this tiny list, as well-- plenty of folks out there willing to hang, but it just seems, at this moment, that there is less of a charge heading into what are supposed to be the "fun months."
Hopefully four months from now I'll look back at this post and have a mighty LOL at how wrong I was to worry.
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Good to see you again...........Brother!
Mar. 25th, 2009 | 12:06 am
location: my bed
music: The Protomen - The Stand (Man or Machine)
Evening, Diary. I've been listening to the Rock Opera about Mega Man by The Protomen. I would highly recommend that anyone who likes things that aren't lame give it a listen. It's a bit of reimagining of Mega Man's story: Wily has mankind in a deathgrip of oppression, and Dr. Light, working in secret for 12 years, creates Proto Man to defeat Wily set the people free. Mankind puts its faith in Proto Man, but he is defeated by Wily's 'bots, and quickly forsaken. Years later, Light makes Mega Man, but tells forbids him to walk the path of his brother. Mega Man confronts Wily's army, kicking ass until he comes across Proto Man, now a jaded commander under Wily's thumb. He wasn't brainwashed or anything, but he lost faith in mankind, and didn't see the point in trying to save these people who refused to stand up for themselves, but demanded salvation from Proto Man (and now, Mega Man).
After Proto Man explains his decision to Mega Man, they have a climactic battle, and Mega Man reluctantly kills Proto Man. The gathered people tell Mega Man that it wasn't his fault, and that Proto Man had failed them, and this was the only way. Wily appears, and commands the rest of the army to attack the crowd of people who'd showed up to observe Mega Man's lead of the rebellion. Mega Man, disgusted, leaves as the robot army tears into the crowd. That's the end of their first album.
That's all set to fucking amazing rock. Can you believe it!? Why aren't you listening to it right now!?
As long as I can remember I've totally loved the idea of this conflicted dark/light binary, especially involving a twist like in the face off mentioned above. Brothers, old friends, father and son, mother and daughter, old rivals, master and apprentice... any of that, where one party has become tainted, evil, or just adopted a new perspective or set of values.
I've loved the idea a long time, and I've always tried to give that situation what it needed to flourish in my life and imagination. Growing up, I don't know when it started, but my younger brother and I developed this striking dichotomy. He was always light, and I was always dark. I don't say that to lament, or ask for pity or anything like that--I think it's fucking rad. I've always been drawn more toward the villains, the byronic heroes, the tragic heroes, and my brother was always for the paladins, the supermen, the chivalrous knights. I suppose that's how we started the binary between us, just by imagining ourselves as representatives of the characters we most enjoyed watching. Regardless of how it happened, it's the way things are today; my brother and I have a great relationship, and we get along very well, but in the eyes of my family and all our friends, Dan's the Paladin, and I'm the scourge. I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's reflected through Dan's selflessness and good humour, always trying to see the best in people, and my respective pessimism, cynical attitude, and cruel sense of humour. Now, I should point out that I don't think I've ever done anything truly evil, and I don't think I ever will. It's not like I wouldn't help an old lady across the street-- I would. I guess it's just a matter of contrast between the two of us... and really, it's probably something we just consciously perpetuate back and forth because we so love the idea of being Ryu and Akuma, Link and Ganon, Gandalf and Saruman, Mega Man and Proto Man.
Seriously though, how cool is that kind of story? Two from the same origins, one becoming twisted (or enlightened) and finally facing off with his oldest friend/rival? It's so simple, but so effective... for me, at least.
I leave you with Proto Man's speech to the crowds of men gathered to watch Mega Man fight their battle for them:
Tell me now. Is there a man among you here?
Is there no one who will stand up and try to fight?
Tell me Man, is there not one in all your ranks?
Is there not one who values courage over life?
They looked to me once. Now they turn to you. Do you understand now?
Do you see that the truth is they don't want to change this?
They don't want a hero. They just want a martyr, a statue to raise.
I've given every thing I can.
There are no heroes left in man.
After Proto Man explains his decision to Mega Man, they have a climactic battle, and Mega Man reluctantly kills Proto Man. The gathered people tell Mega Man that it wasn't his fault, and that Proto Man had failed them, and this was the only way. Wily appears, and commands the rest of the army to attack the crowd of people who'd showed up to observe Mega Man's lead of the rebellion. Mega Man, disgusted, leaves as the robot army tears into the crowd. That's the end of their first album.
That's all set to fucking amazing rock. Can you believe it!? Why aren't you listening to it right now!?
As long as I can remember I've totally loved the idea of this conflicted dark/light binary, especially involving a twist like in the face off mentioned above. Brothers, old friends, father and son, mother and daughter, old rivals, master and apprentice... any of that, where one party has become tainted, evil, or just adopted a new perspective or set of values.
I've loved the idea a long time, and I've always tried to give that situation what it needed to flourish in my life and imagination. Growing up, I don't know when it started, but my younger brother and I developed this striking dichotomy. He was always light, and I was always dark. I don't say that to lament, or ask for pity or anything like that--I think it's fucking rad. I've always been drawn more toward the villains, the byronic heroes, the tragic heroes, and my brother was always for the paladins, the supermen, the chivalrous knights. I suppose that's how we started the binary between us, just by imagining ourselves as representatives of the characters we most enjoyed watching. Regardless of how it happened, it's the way things are today; my brother and I have a great relationship, and we get along very well, but in the eyes of my family and all our friends, Dan's the Paladin, and I'm the scourge. I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's reflected through Dan's selflessness and good humour, always trying to see the best in people, and my respective pessimism, cynical attitude, and cruel sense of humour. Now, I should point out that I don't think I've ever done anything truly evil, and I don't think I ever will. It's not like I wouldn't help an old lady across the street-- I would. I guess it's just a matter of contrast between the two of us... and really, it's probably something we just consciously perpetuate back and forth because we so love the idea of being Ryu and Akuma, Link and Ganon, Gandalf and Saruman, Mega Man and Proto Man.
Seriously though, how cool is that kind of story? Two from the same origins, one becoming twisted (or enlightened) and finally facing off with his oldest friend/rival? It's so simple, but so effective... for me, at least.
I leave you with Proto Man's speech to the crowds of men gathered to watch Mega Man fight their battle for them:
Tell me now. Is there a man among you here?
Is there no one who will stand up and try to fight?
Tell me Man, is there not one in all your ranks?
Is there not one who values courage over life?
They looked to me once. Now they turn to you. Do you understand now?
Do you see that the truth is they don't want to change this?
They don't want a hero. They just want a martyr, a statue to raise.
I've given every thing I can.
There are no heroes left in man.
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here's to you, summer
Mar. 22nd, 2009 | 11:31 pm
location: My Bed
music: jonathan coulton - overhead
Haven't written in a while, Diary! Not sure what to write about now! Eeek!
Went to Soprano's last night with Ben, David, Matt, and Matt's charming new ladyfriend Ashley. Had a wonderful time. Sang Rick Astley--what more could I ask for? Also got really drunk. Also walked 20 minutes through town without shoes, doing Ashley's feet a solid by lending her my dope-ass K-swiss. I don't actually have K-swiss shoes, but I figured it's a brand people would recognize.
I've ever so much reading and writing to do for the next two weeks. After that, it's summer. Ben and I were reminiscing about the best summer the other day, and we agreed on the Summer of '07. We had a lot of fun back then: quite a few gatherings and house parties, we were making good money... it was nothing but quick indulgence after quick indulgence. I want this summer to be even better, but it doesn't necessarily have to achieve that greatness through cheap thrills. I'm gonna spend more time with people I like who've been busy with schoolwork, I'm gonna spend time with little brudder and little sister, and visit the parents often. They love me over there. Gonna see a lotta movies, gonna read a lotta books... Also, gonna give late-night dancing a really fair shot. Once a week would be good. Maybe that's an overly-ambitious goal, but damn it'd be fun.
Summer Dreamin'!
Went to Soprano's last night with Ben, David, Matt, and Matt's charming new ladyfriend Ashley. Had a wonderful time. Sang Rick Astley--what more could I ask for? Also got really drunk. Also walked 20 minutes through town without shoes, doing Ashley's feet a solid by lending her my dope-ass K-swiss. I don't actually have K-swiss shoes, but I figured it's a brand people would recognize.
I've ever so much reading and writing to do for the next two weeks. After that, it's summer. Ben and I were reminiscing about the best summer the other day, and we agreed on the Summer of '07. We had a lot of fun back then: quite a few gatherings and house parties, we were making good money... it was nothing but quick indulgence after quick indulgence. I want this summer to be even better, but it doesn't necessarily have to achieve that greatness through cheap thrills. I'm gonna spend more time with people I like who've been busy with schoolwork, I'm gonna spend time with little brudder and little sister, and visit the parents often. They love me over there. Gonna see a lotta movies, gonna read a lotta books... Also, gonna give late-night dancing a really fair shot. Once a week would be good. Maybe that's an overly-ambitious goal, but damn it'd be fun.
Summer Dreamin'!
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Tofino Road Trip Moving Picture
Mar. 18th, 2009 | 01:17 pm
location: UVic Hallways
Made this yesterday for funzie-wunzies, Diary. Thought a different form of media might help satiate your ever-growing appetite for Tom-trivia.
I actually set it to a different piece of music, but popped in a new song that happened to work for most of it.
Tofino Trip from Tom Ippen on Vimeo.
If you just NEED to get that song, it's Jetpack Blues, Sunset Hues by Anamanaguchi.
I actually set it to a different piece of music, but popped in a new song that happened to work for most of it.
I don't really make these with the intention of having them viewed as creative projects; for me, rather than looking back on a photo album of a trip or event, I can watch this quick little video as a really streamlined representation of the whole shebang.
Tofino Trip from Tom Ippen on Vimeo.
If you just NEED to get that song, it's Jetpack Blues, Sunset Hues by Anamanaguchi.
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Tofino
Mar. 16th, 2009 | 10:16 am
location: Biblio Café
music: the killers - bones
Morning, Diary. Sorry to leave you alone for a few days like that. I've been a busy little boy, I have.
Saturday morning I woke up at 5am, piled into a car with Ben, Simon and Alex, and tried to keep myself existing for the duration of the 5 hour drive to Tofino. Have you been to Tofino? Home of over one art gallery and more than 10 surfing outfitters, it is truly god's country. The trip was actually quite interesting. Let me fill you in:
We drove through light, we drove through rain.
We felt its sting, the pelting sleet,
And as it voiced its cruel disdain
We rounded Malahat's tow'ring peak;
The heavens couldn't stop our train.
Though Spring's kiss was but days away,
Our path was strewn with snow and death
Undeterred, we'd not give way
To the island's cold, repelling breath
(I saw in it utter dismay).
Snow melted into groping hands:
The northern folk, downcast and crying
For ferry from their dismal lands;
We gave no thought to even trying.
It did not mesh with selfish plans.
We quested not for liberation
Of the port-folk, slow and tired,
No time to move them from their station.
Ours was for nature: raw, inspired,
And ocean-rider's admiration.
We were then welcomed to this place
Of ancient art, forgotten ways,
By Great Pacific's steely face
And rider's heart was set ablaze
By Ocean's living, glad embrace.
To they, the folk of old Tofino
We flaunted grace and skill unknown.
Through my judgment of their degree, "No,
Their seeds of fate have long been sewn.
They are condemned to dwell in limbo."
That's the end. I'm calling that the end. I wrote another stanza, but, quite frankly, it sucks hard ass. Wanna see it? Wanna see the lost stanza?
At road's end they all found great success,
My colleagues, delighted with the trip.
But Tofino-folk with pity I addressed
Unseeing of cold pride's scalding tip
The shame I bear cannot now be redressed.
I couldn't get the pentameter to work, and then class started, and I won't touch it again. So there you have it. Not bad off the top of my head, right? It was fun to write, either way. We'll call this Tom Ippen's Experiment in Poetry #1.
More to follow? Stay tuned!
Saturday morning I woke up at 5am, piled into a car with Ben, Simon and Alex, and tried to keep myself existing for the duration of the 5 hour drive to Tofino. Have you been to Tofino? Home of over one art gallery and more than 10 surfing outfitters, it is truly god's country. The trip was actually quite interesting. Let me fill you in:
We drove through light, we drove through rain.
We felt its sting, the pelting sleet,
And as it voiced its cruel disdain
We rounded Malahat's tow'ring peak;
The heavens couldn't stop our train.
Though Spring's kiss was but days away,
Our path was strewn with snow and death
Undeterred, we'd not give way
To the island's cold, repelling breath
(I saw in it utter dismay).
Snow melted into groping hands:
The northern folk, downcast and crying
For ferry from their dismal lands;
We gave no thought to even trying.
It did not mesh with selfish plans.
We quested not for liberation
Of the port-folk, slow and tired,
No time to move them from their station.
Ours was for nature: raw, inspired,
And ocean-rider's admiration.
We were then welcomed to this place
Of ancient art, forgotten ways,
By Great Pacific's steely face
And rider's heart was set ablaze
By Ocean's living, glad embrace.
To they, the folk of old Tofino
We flaunted grace and skill unknown.
Through my judgment of their degree, "No,
Their seeds of fate have long been sewn.
They are condemned to dwell in limbo."
That's the end. I'm calling that the end. I wrote another stanza, but, quite frankly, it sucks hard ass. Wanna see it? Wanna see the lost stanza?
At road's end they all found great success,
My colleagues, delighted with the trip.
But Tofino-folk with pity I addressed
Unseeing of cold pride's scalding tip
The shame I bear cannot now be redressed.
I couldn't get the pentameter to work, and then class started, and I won't touch it again. So there you have it. Not bad off the top of my head, right? It was fun to write, either way. We'll call this Tom Ippen's Experiment in Poetry #1.
More to follow? Stay tuned!
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Ease up, Haircut.
Mar. 12th, 2009 | 12:22 pm
location: Biblio Café
music: Anamanaguchi - Airbase
Hello, Diary. Once again I find myself in Biblio Café, with a 3 hour break and nothing to keep me entertained. You know the internet? Turns out there's not as much stuff on there as everyone says. I'm over it.
Let's see... what have I been up to lately... You know, I don't think I've mentioned anything to do with Street Fighter in the past few weeks. This is alarming, as I've played it every single day since its release. I can quite confidently declare that it is my favourite fighting game of all time. There are some close runners up: the immediate challenger that pops into my mind is Soul Calibur, but I'd have trouble picking which iteration. King of fighters is boring, Tekken was never my thing, and Virtua Fighter always feels sloppy and weird. I guess Smash Bros. qualifies as a fighter, sort of, but it still wouldn't take precedence over my beloved SF4.
Seriously, anyone who hasn't should go out and play this game. They have it at EB on display, you could buy your own, or you could come to my house and get your ass beat. Besides loving the precise gameplay and unique visual style, I love what the discussion this game generates in my home. Simon and I will always start up conversations reporting the day's findings to one another; discovery of useful combos and strategies, opinions on character strength and situational usefulness, the online community, the tournament and high-level playstyles... there's a whole world of Street Fighter that I, regretfully, am just now discovering with significant commitment.
Other than this, and reading, one of my latest little joys is addressing Ben with a different lady's name every time I speak to him. Now, listen, I'm not trying to make any suggestions about Ben, nor am I trying to be derogatory to women by declaring that Ben should be counted among their ranks. I've seen this joke play out on a bunch of tv shows and movies (I can't recall precisely which) and the idea that it isn't a nickname, but something that reaches a great deal further interests me. It's not like he's just "Leslie" from now on; he's Leslie at the beginning of the sentence, and by the end he's Beth. You know? He, Ben, inspires the appearance of an infinite number of transient women. There's this suggestion that his personality exudes this morphing quality that can't be pinned down by one nickname. I don't know what I'm saying here. Maybe I just like nicknames and I can't decide on one. Maybe this is offensive. Television made me do it––i'm so impressionable. My bad. He got a haircut last night. I'll start calling him "Haircut."
Let's see... what have I been up to lately... You know, I don't think I've mentioned anything to do with Street Fighter in the past few weeks. This is alarming, as I've played it every single day since its release. I can quite confidently declare that it is my favourite fighting game of all time. There are some close runners up: the immediate challenger that pops into my mind is Soul Calibur, but I'd have trouble picking which iteration. King of fighters is boring, Tekken was never my thing, and Virtua Fighter always feels sloppy and weird. I guess Smash Bros. qualifies as a fighter, sort of, but it still wouldn't take precedence over my beloved SF4.
Seriously, anyone who hasn't should go out and play this game. They have it at EB on display, you could buy your own, or you could come to my house and get your ass beat. Besides loving the precise gameplay and unique visual style, I love what the discussion this game generates in my home. Simon and I will always start up conversations reporting the day's findings to one another; discovery of useful combos and strategies, opinions on character strength and situational usefulness, the online community, the tournament and high-level playstyles... there's a whole world of Street Fighter that I, regretfully, am just now discovering with significant commitment.
Other than this, and reading, one of my latest little joys is addressing Ben with a different lady's name every time I speak to him. Now, listen, I'm not trying to make any suggestions about Ben, nor am I trying to be derogatory to women by declaring that Ben should be counted among their ranks. I've seen this joke play out on a bunch of tv shows and movies (I can't recall precisely which) and the idea that it isn't a nickname, but something that reaches a great deal further interests me. It's not like he's just "Leslie" from now on; he's Leslie at the beginning of the sentence, and by the end he's Beth. You know? He, Ben, inspires the appearance of an infinite number of transient women. There's this suggestion that his personality exudes this morphing quality that can't be pinned down by one nickname. I don't know what I'm saying here. Maybe I just like nicknames and I can't decide on one. Maybe this is offensive. Television made me do it––i'm so impressionable. My bad. He got a haircut last night. I'll start calling him "Haircut."
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'Cause it's Gonna Be the Future Soon.
Mar. 11th, 2009 | 11:39 am
location: Biblio Café
music: Street Fighter IV OST - Guile's Theme
Good afternoon, Diary. Know what I've been thinking about? How I begin every post here by addressing you. It occurs to me, Diary, that you're nothing more than a moniker given to the space I place all my whimsical thinkings and shenannery. Perhaps I should stop addressing you personally; it might alienate my readers.
Oh, what am I going on about? Without you, they wouldn't have a place to come and read my thoughts. I apologize for all that nonsense. You're still number one, Diary.
I don't have any stories for you, this time, (is that a good thing?) so I think this'll just be one of those classic updates. Life's pretty good, as usual. If I'd a harder go of it every day––if I didn't have enough money to get by, if I was disabled in some way, if my relationships with friends and family were strained, if I had a debilitating drug addiction––these posts would be considerably more interesting, but I don't think it'd be worth the trade-off. Thank you, universe, for placing me in the body of an upper-middle class caucausian male in a technologically and socially developed society. I am eternally grateful.
Oh, what am I going on about? Without you, they wouldn't have a place to come and read my thoughts. I apologize for all that nonsense. You're still number one, Diary.
I don't have any stories for you, this time, (is that a good thing?) so I think this'll just be one of those classic updates. Life's pretty good, as usual. If I'd a harder go of it every day––if I didn't have enough money to get by, if I was disabled in some way, if my relationships with friends and family were strained, if I had a debilitating drug addiction––these posts would be considerably more interesting, but I don't think it'd be worth the trade-off. Thank you, universe, for placing me in the body of an upper-middle class caucausian male in a technologically and socially developed society. I am eternally grateful.
Things that can get in my head and stress me out are few and far between, but eventually they'll bore their way in and make a mess. After declaring my double-major and immediately regretting it, I've been thinking about what I can actually do when I finish this degree. I'm leaning more strongly than ever toward switching back to a single Major, History, as it's really been rubbing me the right way of late. I'll see a career counsellor to see what my options are, though I'm pretty confident it'll go down the way it does in my head:
"Well, you could get your teacher's certification and go into secondary Ed."
"No, thank you. What else've you got for me."
"The government is always looking to hire."
"Wow. Great. Is that everything?"
"Yes."
"Fantastic."
I really feel like doing something with writing. Weather it's journalism, criticism, analysis, research, or anything else, I can really get behind that idea right now. I have tiny sparks of ideas that never take full form, but it would definitely be interesting to pursue a creative project sometime soon. Thinking about prospects like these, in turn, makes me worry about my ability, but I suppose I've always got time to refine and improve whatever style I have.
Talking today in my Lit class was particularly interesting: we discussed ideas of originality, and how true originality doesn't exist, when you really get down to it. We were talking about Percy Shelley's Prometheus Unbound, and the fire he fell under for publishing it. He was basically assailed with criticisms to the tune of "what right have you got to manipulate this ancient story? Are you saying you're on the same level as ancient authors of Greek Tragedy?" The way Shelley saw it, you can't help but be influenced by the great artists you're exposed to. That's where ideas come from: manipulating themes and concepts to serve your own purpose and realize your own vision. It was really cool for me to think about, that there could be this awesome, timeless power that courses through humanity. It started as a formed vision, and has never been replicated, only tailored and adorned and twisted over the millennia by every human mind. Shelley imagined it as a great, collective lightning that fired through us and the one, connecting human heart, and moved through the ages. I really like that image––I want to contribute.
As far as strengthening my own capacity for thought and composition, all I can do is keep writing and keep reading. I've got a growing list of material to read over the summer, and I can't wait. My goal right now is to get at least one "must-read" book from everyone I know (or respect in some way) and check it off the list. It'll be a great window into fragments of people that, perhaps, lie unintentionally hidden. Friends, give me your favourite book titles! It's true, I do have some spare time right now, but I just can't get into recreational reading when I've got a massive stack of textbooks and articles demanding my attention. A summer of 2 hour busrides to and from work is looking to be a little more bearable.
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Bitter Memories
Mar. 5th, 2009 | 10:00 am
location: Biblio Café
music: Anamanaguchi - Jetpack Blues, Sunset Hues
Hello, Diary. Listen, I'm a pretty upbeat guy, I think. I'm rarely down on myself; I probably border on arrogant, though I'd just call myself appropriately confident. I accept that I can be a major douche in the "thinking I'm hot shit department." It is a major character flaw. I'll work on it.
I posted a story earlier, addressing my delusions of grandeur as a young lad. These things keep popping up in my memory and bugging me. That last story was essentially an apology for my behaviour. What follows is another entirely factual account of young Tom doing shit old Tom can't effing belive.
---
He was in sixth grade, one of the final years of his "sweat-pants 'n mushroom cut" phase. It was toward the end of the year, March or April. His class was studying ancient Greek culture. His teacher, Mrs. Balaam, was a delightfully clueless Dutch woman. She would laugh at his jokes, and tell his parents how gifted he was. She was one of his closest allies. She was speaking, then, to assign a project: they (her class) were to study one aspect of ancient Greek culture and present their findings to the class in an interesting way (the standard poster-board was forbidden). As the trusty teacher elaborated on the criteria, a short, fat, troll of a child sat with wide eyes and a salamander-smile spreading across his face. He sat there, the thick, greasy cogs of his mind grinding into one another with excitement and cunning. The rusted machine of his mind was cranking out a plan to ensnare the hearts and minds of his classmates; to secure his seat upon the throne of sixth grade popularity. Oh, foolish child! Oh poor, misguided, idiot! Do you truly lack self-awareness to this degree? Stay this madness! He, the cackling imp, was Tom, our misguided hero.
Tom hated putting in more effort than was necessary. He knew himself to be above most of his peers intellectually. He just knew it. If he didn't get the best grade in the class on a test, he shrugged, knowing that the victory would've been his, had he but put in an ounce of work. "No matter. I know I'm the best" was the national anthem in the fledgling state of Tom. Luckily, for this new project, an opportunity of convenience presented itself: It just so happened that the esteemed Weird Al Yankovic, who held the sole rights to music in the land of Tom, had written a song about horoscopes. Horoscopes were a part of Greek culture! Sure, it might have been a bit of a stretch, maybe some research would've helped, but it was good enough for our hero. He had the song on a CD at home, he knew the lyrics by heart: he was finished his project before old teacher was even done going over the specifics. He would sing in front of the class, and be a hero.
It turned out to be a group project–a minor setback. Two trusty colleagues, Mark and David, would have the luxury of being included in Tom's master plan. They would be given subsidiary acting roles to pump up the crowd for the main event. Tom waddled home that day in a gleeful, sniveling clip. The better part of his grade was secured at no cost of time or investment, with his own crowning as a charismatic god as an added bonus. All he needed to do was secure a costume to satisfy the teacher's lust for historical accuracy. Demanding a cape of his mother, he was regrettably informed of a cape shortage in the house, but was offered a substitute: An enormous, deep purple, hand-sewn poncho, the result of a community-building exercise on a Unitarian Women's Retreat. As he looked at his round form adorned in the purple robe, he thought himself kingly. He was a wizard. An action hero. A bad-ass. How sad it is he could not see the piggish, cruel, ridiculously dressed boy, lost in his own imagination and arrogance.
Weeks later, as the due date approached, the complaints of his class on the vagueness reached old Mrs. Balaam's ears. She accepted that the project lacked a real direction, and should be scrapped altogether. The class, shocked and ecstatic, rejoiced while Tom sat in his plastic chair, his flabby bottom sweating with anger and helplessness. How could his chance to be a hero be torn away so quickly? He bravely raised his hand into the air in slow motion, an ancient stone pillar cresting out of the sea, straining to reach the sun. Mrs. Balaam, awash in her sudden popularity with the students, took a very long time to notice the pudgy yet adamant hand in the air. She quieted the class, and called on Tom.
"What if we've finished our projects already?" he said in a voice you couldn't enjoy if you tried. "Some people put a lot of work into these."
Mrs. Balaam was troubled, and now shaken in her resolve to cancel the project. Either the will of this overweight child was unusually compelling, or she was missing a spine. After a moment of consideration, she decided that anyone who wanted to could present their project for extra credit, but those who did not participate would not be penalized. Such a wise leader, she was.
Tom had dodged a bullet, and figured that now was the time. He arranged to present his masterpiece to the class the next day. He was dropped off toting his backpack as well as the bundled poncho, too vast to be contained by mortal back-apparel. He sat through the first few periods with a brick of excitement bouncing off the walls of his gut. Social studies finally began, and as Mark and David exchanged worried looks, Mrs. Balaam announced that the boys would be presenting their findings on astrology. After one last briefing with David and Mark on their roles, Tom went into the hall to wait for his cue. David was to play the role of the master of ceremonies, warming up the crowd and introducing the star. Tom couldn't hear exactly what he was saying as he struggled to pull the poncho over his bulky head, but he could tell that he got a few laughs from the crowd. A good start. Mark, the twelve year old who looked not a day over six, was to play the muscle-bound, silent tough guy you would see playing a bodyguard in a comedy. Whether this was intended to be ironic or not was unknown. His role was to nod and make a grunting noise at one point, and Tom heard it, and again the response was positive.
As he waited in the hall, a confident smile on his face, thrilled to entertain, two boys walked by. They looked at him in his enormous, purple poncho, and though one of them smiled, they didn't say anything. Tom's smile vanished and he looked away, pretending to busy himself at a locker he had been leaning against. All of a sudden, he was naked and afraid. He wanted to explain to the boys that his garb was justified for the performance he was about to give. He wanted to tell them that he knew it looked silly, and it was a joke. As they walked out of hearing range, he saw one of them whisper to the other, and glance back toward him. His heart sank for a moment, and he hated them. He told himself that he shouldn't be embarrassed, and those boys are just the sort of bullies that television and books told him not to mind, and that individuality and a positive attitude were all he needed. Poor, ignorant moron. You didn't have either.
He got his cue, and entered the classroom, eyebrows raised and nose upturned, completely in character. As far as what the "character" was, it seems an arrogant yet infinitely wise seer would be an accurate description. A seer with a passion for purple. A Greek seer with a passion for purple, if you really wanted to get specific. Mark gave another grunt and hit the play button at David's command, and the song began.
I'll pause here for a moment, so you can hear the song. It'll help paint the picture.
Tom knew every word, he had heard the song hundreds of times. It was a fast song, too; how could they not be impressed? David had instructed the audience to stand up when they heard their astrological sign called. As the song went on, and his arms swayed about in broad, sweeping movements, like a grand mage commanding the ocean, Tom began to notice that, while everyone in the class had an enormous smile on their face, none of them were standing up when he called a sign. Eventually, when he called "Virgo," a boy named Mike stood up and waved at Tom. He stood there laughing, ready to hear his hilariously conceived and delivered horoscope from our hero, and as Tom sang, Mike clapped a little. As he finished and went on to the next sign, Tom saw Mike receive a high-five from one of his friends. His heart sank just as it had in the hallway minutes before, and his voice started to fade out. He finished off the last few minutes of the song, as the chorus repeated itself over and over, with a squeaky whisper of a voice. From that point on all he wanted was for the song to end. He wanted to take off the stupid poncho, he wanted to leave the class and go home and lie down. It was like lightning striking him; like a blind man being struck with a holy vision and then given sight. He had made a fool of himself, and was presented with his own profoundly "uncool" behaviour and appearance.
I don't know how Tom lived it down. I know that he started to change. He became conscious of his appearance, he began to think that he might not inherently be the most intelligent, respected, or otherwise gifted kid around. He certainly wishes he could've changed the way he behaved sooner. His friends tell him that this, what he experienced, is simply the nature of growing up: a lack of self-awareness, and a refusal to accept the consequences of one's actions in a rational way. Poor kid.
He'll turn out alright.
I posted a story earlier, addressing my delusions of grandeur as a young lad. These things keep popping up in my memory and bugging me. That last story was essentially an apology for my behaviour. What follows is another entirely factual account of young Tom doing shit old Tom can't effing belive.
---
He was in sixth grade, one of the final years of his "sweat-pants 'n mushroom cut" phase. It was toward the end of the year, March or April. His class was studying ancient Greek culture. His teacher, Mrs. Balaam, was a delightfully clueless Dutch woman. She would laugh at his jokes, and tell his parents how gifted he was. She was one of his closest allies. She was speaking, then, to assign a project: they (her class) were to study one aspect of ancient Greek culture and present their findings to the class in an interesting way (the standard poster-board was forbidden). As the trusty teacher elaborated on the criteria, a short, fat, troll of a child sat with wide eyes and a salamander-smile spreading across his face. He sat there, the thick, greasy cogs of his mind grinding into one another with excitement and cunning. The rusted machine of his mind was cranking out a plan to ensnare the hearts and minds of his classmates; to secure his seat upon the throne of sixth grade popularity. Oh, foolish child! Oh poor, misguided, idiot! Do you truly lack self-awareness to this degree? Stay this madness! He, the cackling imp, was Tom, our misguided hero.
Tom hated putting in more effort than was necessary. He knew himself to be above most of his peers intellectually. He just knew it. If he didn't get the best grade in the class on a test, he shrugged, knowing that the victory would've been his, had he but put in an ounce of work. "No matter. I know I'm the best" was the national anthem in the fledgling state of Tom. Luckily, for this new project, an opportunity of convenience presented itself: It just so happened that the esteemed Weird Al Yankovic, who held the sole rights to music in the land of Tom, had written a song about horoscopes. Horoscopes were a part of Greek culture! Sure, it might have been a bit of a stretch, maybe some research would've helped, but it was good enough for our hero. He had the song on a CD at home, he knew the lyrics by heart: he was finished his project before old teacher was even done going over the specifics. He would sing in front of the class, and be a hero.
It turned out to be a group project–a minor setback. Two trusty colleagues, Mark and David, would have the luxury of being included in Tom's master plan. They would be given subsidiary acting roles to pump up the crowd for the main event. Tom waddled home that day in a gleeful, sniveling clip. The better part of his grade was secured at no cost of time or investment, with his own crowning as a charismatic god as an added bonus. All he needed to do was secure a costume to satisfy the teacher's lust for historical accuracy. Demanding a cape of his mother, he was regrettably informed of a cape shortage in the house, but was offered a substitute: An enormous, deep purple, hand-sewn poncho, the result of a community-building exercise on a Unitarian Women's Retreat. As he looked at his round form adorned in the purple robe, he thought himself kingly. He was a wizard. An action hero. A bad-ass. How sad it is he could not see the piggish, cruel, ridiculously dressed boy, lost in his own imagination and arrogance.
Weeks later, as the due date approached, the complaints of his class on the vagueness reached old Mrs. Balaam's ears. She accepted that the project lacked a real direction, and should be scrapped altogether. The class, shocked and ecstatic, rejoiced while Tom sat in his plastic chair, his flabby bottom sweating with anger and helplessness. How could his chance to be a hero be torn away so quickly? He bravely raised his hand into the air in slow motion, an ancient stone pillar cresting out of the sea, straining to reach the sun. Mrs. Balaam, awash in her sudden popularity with the students, took a very long time to notice the pudgy yet adamant hand in the air. She quieted the class, and called on Tom.
"What if we've finished our projects already?" he said in a voice you couldn't enjoy if you tried. "Some people put a lot of work into these."
Mrs. Balaam was troubled, and now shaken in her resolve to cancel the project. Either the will of this overweight child was unusually compelling, or she was missing a spine. After a moment of consideration, she decided that anyone who wanted to could present their project for extra credit, but those who did not participate would not be penalized. Such a wise leader, she was.
Tom had dodged a bullet, and figured that now was the time. He arranged to present his masterpiece to the class the next day. He was dropped off toting his backpack as well as the bundled poncho, too vast to be contained by mortal back-apparel. He sat through the first few periods with a brick of excitement bouncing off the walls of his gut. Social studies finally began, and as Mark and David exchanged worried looks, Mrs. Balaam announced that the boys would be presenting their findings on astrology. After one last briefing with David and Mark on their roles, Tom went into the hall to wait for his cue. David was to play the role of the master of ceremonies, warming up the crowd and introducing the star. Tom couldn't hear exactly what he was saying as he struggled to pull the poncho over his bulky head, but he could tell that he got a few laughs from the crowd. A good start. Mark, the twelve year old who looked not a day over six, was to play the muscle-bound, silent tough guy you would see playing a bodyguard in a comedy. Whether this was intended to be ironic or not was unknown. His role was to nod and make a grunting noise at one point, and Tom heard it, and again the response was positive.
As he waited in the hall, a confident smile on his face, thrilled to entertain, two boys walked by. They looked at him in his enormous, purple poncho, and though one of them smiled, they didn't say anything. Tom's smile vanished and he looked away, pretending to busy himself at a locker he had been leaning against. All of a sudden, he was naked and afraid. He wanted to explain to the boys that his garb was justified for the performance he was about to give. He wanted to tell them that he knew it looked silly, and it was a joke. As they walked out of hearing range, he saw one of them whisper to the other, and glance back toward him. His heart sank for a moment, and he hated them. He told himself that he shouldn't be embarrassed, and those boys are just the sort of bullies that television and books told him not to mind, and that individuality and a positive attitude were all he needed. Poor, ignorant moron. You didn't have either.
He got his cue, and entered the classroom, eyebrows raised and nose upturned, completely in character. As far as what the "character" was, it seems an arrogant yet infinitely wise seer would be an accurate description. A seer with a passion for purple. A Greek seer with a passion for purple, if you really wanted to get specific. Mark gave another grunt and hit the play button at David's command, and the song began.
I'll pause here for a moment, so you can hear the song. It'll help paint the picture.
Tom knew every word, he had heard the song hundreds of times. It was a fast song, too; how could they not be impressed? David had instructed the audience to stand up when they heard their astrological sign called. As the song went on, and his arms swayed about in broad, sweeping movements, like a grand mage commanding the ocean, Tom began to notice that, while everyone in the class had an enormous smile on their face, none of them were standing up when he called a sign. Eventually, when he called "Virgo," a boy named Mike stood up and waved at Tom. He stood there laughing, ready to hear his hilariously conceived and delivered horoscope from our hero, and as Tom sang, Mike clapped a little. As he finished and went on to the next sign, Tom saw Mike receive a high-five from one of his friends. His heart sank just as it had in the hallway minutes before, and his voice started to fade out. He finished off the last few minutes of the song, as the chorus repeated itself over and over, with a squeaky whisper of a voice. From that point on all he wanted was for the song to end. He wanted to take off the stupid poncho, he wanted to leave the class and go home and lie down. It was like lightning striking him; like a blind man being struck with a holy vision and then given sight. He had made a fool of himself, and was presented with his own profoundly "uncool" behaviour and appearance.
I don't know how Tom lived it down. I know that he started to change. He became conscious of his appearance, he began to think that he might not inherently be the most intelligent, respected, or otherwise gifted kid around. He certainly wishes he could've changed the way he behaved sooner. His friends tell him that this, what he experienced, is simply the nature of growing up: a lack of self-awareness, and a refusal to accept the consequences of one's actions in a rational way. Poor kid.
He'll turn out alright.
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A Song to Sing
Mar. 3rd, 2009 | 01:20 am
location: my bed
music: ben folds five - underground
Music, Diary! Music! It's all around us! I feel it, Diary! I feel it!
No, music's never really been my thing. I played clarinet in band through middle school, had a good time with it. Sang in church choir. Performed in musical theatre. I've even got an iPod, and I've always had one armed and ready for at least the last six years. Listen, I don't have a problem with music; I feel that it's never consumed me as it does some of my friends, some characters in inspiring dramas. It doesn't rule my life, and that's a-ok with me. Look, it's definitely important, just not my... forté.
I've obviously had the fantasy of starting up a band with close friends. Who hasn't? Unfortunately, in high school, where these dreams can often run their course and play in out in a fun way before sputtering out, my group wasn't really the "form a band" type. Am I too old to chase a silly fantasy like this? Probably, especially since I don't really have the energy to take it all that seriously.
All the same, Ben's been talking non-stop about forming a band for the past little while. Ben plays bass, and he's pretty durn good at it. Matt, the second proposed band member, is a musical prodigy. He plays concert clarinet, all sorts of piano, he's got a nice bass voice, and he can compose and conduct at will. Why just yesterday he got a tattoo of this spiralling, 3-d sort of piano key stream. That description doesn't do it justice. It looks cool. He's talented. Whatever. They want to form a band with the three of us plus a drummer, which we'll try to scrounge up from our standing base of close friends. They want me to be the singer. Obviously I'd love to do it; I feel I can sing well, but I'm secretly super-proud of my voice, even though it's undeserving of such respect. I can carry a tune, and I guess I can do well when I'm singing a higher-style themed kinda song. Ben Folds, the lead singer of Greenday, I can do a voice kinda like that. Here I go talking about myself: douchebag alert!
I tried to bring Ben down to earth and assure him that he wouldn't start a band and magically be famous. He insists that the purpose is just to flourish creatively and have a good time makin' music... for now, at least. It's hard to argue with a scheme like that. I guess I'll give it a shot, if we can find a drummer, that is. It couldn't hurt to indulge in an old fantasy, could it, Diary? I think it'll be fun.
Now I just need to find a drummer. Maybe a lady drummer. I imagine a girl drummer who could drum and sing. Get some nice boy-girl harmony going. OOoooohhh.... And then we get married, right after going platinum. Matt's the best man. Ben's an usher. I weigh 120 lbs and am addicted to cocaine. This is a good decision.
No, music's never really been my thing. I played clarinet in band through middle school, had a good time with it. Sang in church choir. Performed in musical theatre. I've even got an iPod, and I've always had one armed and ready for at least the last six years. Listen, I don't have a problem with music; I feel that it's never consumed me as it does some of my friends, some characters in inspiring dramas. It doesn't rule my life, and that's a-ok with me. Look, it's definitely important, just not my... forté.
I've obviously had the fantasy of starting up a band with close friends. Who hasn't? Unfortunately, in high school, where these dreams can often run their course and play in out in a fun way before sputtering out, my group wasn't really the "form a band" type. Am I too old to chase a silly fantasy like this? Probably, especially since I don't really have the energy to take it all that seriously.
All the same, Ben's been talking non-stop about forming a band for the past little while. Ben plays bass, and he's pretty durn good at it. Matt, the second proposed band member, is a musical prodigy. He plays concert clarinet, all sorts of piano, he's got a nice bass voice, and he can compose and conduct at will. Why just yesterday he got a tattoo of this spiralling, 3-d sort of piano key stream. That description doesn't do it justice. It looks cool. He's talented. Whatever. They want to form a band with the three of us plus a drummer, which we'll try to scrounge up from our standing base of close friends. They want me to be the singer. Obviously I'd love to do it; I feel I can sing well, but I'm secretly super-proud of my voice, even though it's undeserving of such respect. I can carry a tune, and I guess I can do well when I'm singing a higher-style themed kinda song. Ben Folds, the lead singer of Greenday, I can do a voice kinda like that. Here I go talking about myself: douchebag alert!
I tried to bring Ben down to earth and assure him that he wouldn't start a band and magically be famous. He insists that the purpose is just to flourish creatively and have a good time makin' music... for now, at least. It's hard to argue with a scheme like that. I guess I'll give it a shot, if we can find a drummer, that is. It couldn't hurt to indulge in an old fantasy, could it, Diary? I think it'll be fun.
Now I just need to find a drummer. Maybe a lady drummer. I imagine a girl drummer who could drum and sing. Get some nice boy-girl harmony going. OOoooohhh.... And then we get married, right after going platinum. Matt's the best man. Ben's an usher. I weigh 120 lbs and am addicted to cocaine. This is a good decision.
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Big, Big Boner
Feb. 27th, 2009 | 11:41 pm
location: My Bed
I spent the last half-hour looking for a commercial I saw when I was about ten years old, and never forgot. It's just not out there, Diary. It was an ad for Tomy's "Big Big Loader" toy from the mid-90s, and featured a puppet driving a truck who sang a song about... loading. At the end of the spot it went in for a close up on trucker-puppet's face and he sustained an epic "Big, Big Loaderrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" for what felt like an eternity. I will never forget this puppet.
This was also an early moment of triumph for me: watching the commercial with some friends, I suggested "Big Big Boner," and was made king-for-a-day. That was truly my time.
A disappointing consolation, this McDonald's commercial from 1967 is interesting enough, I think. Take a gander.
Dissonant choirs of sad children sing an anthem of "happy" while gun-shots accompany dark, distorted stills of families funnin' around outdoors. What does it all mean? The best part? A suggestion that quick service from a McDonald's cashier will prevent inevitable incest between your children. You don't want your kids to "get to each other," do you? Hear that, 1960s parents? The continuance genetic legacy hinges on fast cheeseburgers.
This was also an early moment of triumph for me: watching the commercial with some friends, I suggested "Big Big Boner," and was made king-for-a-day. That was truly my time.
A disappointing consolation, this McDonald's commercial from 1967 is interesting enough, I think. Take a gander.
Dissonant choirs of sad children sing an anthem of "happy" while gun-shots accompany dark, distorted stills of families funnin' around outdoors. What does it all mean? The best part? A suggestion that quick service from a McDonald's cashier will prevent inevitable incest between your children. You don't want your kids to "get to each other," do you? Hear that, 1960s parents? The continuance genetic legacy hinges on fast cheeseburgers.
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Tidal Barracuda
Feb. 26th, 2009 | 10:56 am
location: Biblio Café
music: destroyer - sick priest learns to last forever
It was at least the fifth consecutive day I'd gone without video games. A surprisingly cold day for July on Hornby Island, the realm of hemp and junkyards, I found myself freezing on the beach. My T-shirt and sweat pants combo weren't cutting it, but at least I looked cool. Mushroom cut, Velcro runners, (you know, for all the running I did) and thin, wire-frame glasses made me the hottest shit that beach had ever seen – at least that's how I saw it. Looking back, the elitist, "badass" attitude I maintained is beyond my understanding. How could I think so much of myself, 12 year old Tom, who put forth so little effort yet expected such a generous return from everyone I met? Sarcasm and what people told me was a "quick-wit" was, apparently, enough to justify my constantly upturned nose. Sick.
Little brother Dan, friend Luke, friend's little brother Max, all in tow, we bounced along the logs on the rocky, gray, dead shore that made up the beautiful coastline of Hornby Island. I don't mean to suggest it isn't attractive in its own natural, West-Coast way, but as an impatient child, promised a beach by his parents, I was a little disappointed to find that the definition of "beach" was not shared between me and my father. We came across a deep tidal pool bordered by rocks and a giant, weathered log. We couldn't see any ocean-life skittering about like with the other pools, but a stalk of kelp disappeared into the miniature abyss, making the possibilities endless. We were collectively mystified by this dark little pool.
"Think about what could be down there!" one of them said. "It could be anything that lives in the ocean, trapped in this little pool!"
"It's probably a Barracuda." I said, trying to be as concise and scientific as possible. They all looked at me, my brother's eyes were wide. "Yeah," I continued, "they travel in packs, you know." alright, good. The extent of my knowledge on barracudas had been relayed. I had progressed this hypothetical as far as I could. I went on:
"They can be like twelve feet long, and they can tear all the skin off a man in like ten seconds. Yeah, this one was probably laying its eggs and got washed ashore and stuck in this pool at low tide." Bravo, Tom. A long career of mindless bullshit lies before you.
I remember Luke looking at me with a smile rimmed with skepticism, but enough excitement to let it slide. By his grace this clearly imaginary fun was permitted to continue unchecked. There was a growing look of concern in young Daniel's eyes, spurring me onward.
We noticed a cluster of yellowish orbs hanging off some nearby plant-life, and I assumed they were fish eggs. In all likelihood they were some kind of seaweed. No matter.
"Aha!" I said, amid the now excited suggestions of what should be done with the dangerous creature, "some fish eggs! They're too small to be the Barracuda's, though – probably salmon eggs." I remember saying that exact sentence, verbatim. Of course a salmon would spawn, all alone, twenty feet out of the water, on the coast of an island in the middle of nowhere.
"If we take these salmon eggs and chuck them in the pool, we can feed this fish, and keep him from eating an innocent person." As I spoke, my brother's face changed from a quiet anxiety to one of determined rebellion. Imagine the face of a warrior monk, steadfast, adamant; He was defending his monastery, his home, from a ruthless barbarian invader. This was my brother in this moment.
"Listen, guys: the barracuda's gotta eat, doesn't it? Do you want to let it die?" I said with a grin, nourished by the distress I caused my brother.
"We can't do that, Tom." Dan said, or at least something to that extent. He strategically placed himself between me and the "salmon eggs" in question.
I don't recall exactly how things went down, at least not at the tactical level. I know that there were two in favour of baby-salmon-genocide, Luke and myself, and two opposed, Dan and Max. When it came down to it, this was a battle between my brother and I. Luke was probably the only one still conscious of the fact that it was all make-believe, and he was having a good time indulging me. Max was determined to protect the interests of my brother in the face of the cruel tyrant that was a young Tom.
I threw handful after handful of orange clusters into the pool, and watched them gently float down through the murky black, perhaps into the mouth of a hungry, spawning Barracuda. My brother's screams of protest couldn't deter me. It never came to blows, or anything close, and now that I think on it I'm not sure why. This was a battle of morals, and I know that my brother and I certainly clashed with greater ferocity over smaller matters before and after that day.
When I imagine myself as I am today there, invisible, watching these boys throwing pretend salmon eggs into a pool with an imaginary Barracuda, I feel such heavy guilt and humiliation. What right did I have, or thought I had, to act that way? Not to apologize for the "cruelty" of killing imaginary baby fish, but for my attitude toward my peers. I thought myself so smart, so "classically cool." How was I justified? What was the cause? First-born syndrome? Spoiled as a young child? Some deep-seated desire to do wrong to others?
I like to think I'm more aware of the image I put forward these days. Every day I recall a memory like this and wish that I was face-to-face with someone, so I could personally deliver an apology, both for whatever rudeness or misdeed I carried out, and for the person I allowed myself to be.
Sorry, Dan. I don't think there was a Barracuda in there, nor do I think those were baby salmon.
Little brother Dan, friend Luke, friend's little brother Max, all in tow, we bounced along the logs on the rocky, gray, dead shore that made up the beautiful coastline of Hornby Island. I don't mean to suggest it isn't attractive in its own natural, West-Coast way, but as an impatient child, promised a beach by his parents, I was a little disappointed to find that the definition of "beach" was not shared between me and my father. We came across a deep tidal pool bordered by rocks and a giant, weathered log. We couldn't see any ocean-life skittering about like with the other pools, but a stalk of kelp disappeared into the miniature abyss, making the possibilities endless. We were collectively mystified by this dark little pool.
"Think about what could be down there!" one of them said. "It could be anything that lives in the ocean, trapped in this little pool!"
"It's probably a Barracuda." I said, trying to be as concise and scientific as possible. They all looked at me, my brother's eyes were wide. "Yeah," I continued, "they travel in packs, you know." alright, good. The extent of my knowledge on barracudas had been relayed. I had progressed this hypothetical as far as I could. I went on:
"They can be like twelve feet long, and they can tear all the skin off a man in like ten seconds. Yeah, this one was probably laying its eggs and got washed ashore and stuck in this pool at low tide." Bravo, Tom. A long career of mindless bullshit lies before you.
I remember Luke looking at me with a smile rimmed with skepticism, but enough excitement to let it slide. By his grace this clearly imaginary fun was permitted to continue unchecked. There was a growing look of concern in young Daniel's eyes, spurring me onward.
We noticed a cluster of yellowish orbs hanging off some nearby plant-life, and I assumed they were fish eggs. In all likelihood they were some kind of seaweed. No matter.
"Aha!" I said, amid the now excited suggestions of what should be done with the dangerous creature, "some fish eggs! They're too small to be the Barracuda's, though – probably salmon eggs." I remember saying that exact sentence, verbatim. Of course a salmon would spawn, all alone, twenty feet out of the water, on the coast of an island in the middle of nowhere.
"If we take these salmon eggs and chuck them in the pool, we can feed this fish, and keep him from eating an innocent person." As I spoke, my brother's face changed from a quiet anxiety to one of determined rebellion. Imagine the face of a warrior monk, steadfast, adamant; He was defending his monastery, his home, from a ruthless barbarian invader. This was my brother in this moment.
"Listen, guys: the barracuda's gotta eat, doesn't it? Do you want to let it die?" I said with a grin, nourished by the distress I caused my brother.
"We can't do that, Tom." Dan said, or at least something to that extent. He strategically placed himself between me and the "salmon eggs" in question.
I don't recall exactly how things went down, at least not at the tactical level. I know that there were two in favour of baby-salmon-genocide, Luke and myself, and two opposed, Dan and Max. When it came down to it, this was a battle between my brother and I. Luke was probably the only one still conscious of the fact that it was all make-believe, and he was having a good time indulging me. Max was determined to protect the interests of my brother in the face of the cruel tyrant that was a young Tom.
I threw handful after handful of orange clusters into the pool, and watched them gently float down through the murky black, perhaps into the mouth of a hungry, spawning Barracuda. My brother's screams of protest couldn't deter me. It never came to blows, or anything close, and now that I think on it I'm not sure why. This was a battle of morals, and I know that my brother and I certainly clashed with greater ferocity over smaller matters before and after that day.
When I imagine myself as I am today there, invisible, watching these boys throwing pretend salmon eggs into a pool with an imaginary Barracuda, I feel such heavy guilt and humiliation. What right did I have, or thought I had, to act that way? Not to apologize for the "cruelty" of killing imaginary baby fish, but for my attitude toward my peers. I thought myself so smart, so "classically cool." How was I justified? What was the cause? First-born syndrome? Spoiled as a young child? Some deep-seated desire to do wrong to others?
I like to think I'm more aware of the image I put forward these days. Every day I recall a memory like this and wish that I was face-to-face with someone, so I could personally deliver an apology, both for whatever rudeness or misdeed I carried out, and for the person I allowed myself to be.
Sorry, Dan. I don't think there was a Barracuda in there, nor do I think those were baby salmon.
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Bacon 'n Eggs
Feb. 23rd, 2009 | 10:46 am
location: Cafeteria
music: Coldplay - Cemeteries of London
Morning, Diary. Yesterday was a good day. Got a good 10 pages pumped out for my essay on the Norman Invasion, and had a great time doing it. Up until this semester I've had absolutely no taste–no passion– for any European history predating the Reformation. This stuff is thrilling: all of my secondary research has taken me into readings on the Gallo-Roman stock of Western Europe, and all the awesome Germanic tribes. I won't go into any sick detail here, as I know that you, Diary, and all of my readers, don't particularly give a damn about, oh, say, Godwin, Earl of Wessex. I'm so engrossed in it all. I can't even pick my favourite Germanic tribe, as there are so damn many and they're all so effin' rad.
I'm having a good time with it. Yesterday was also the 81st Academy Awards show, and I never get excited for it until the day of, when I can't look away. Ben, Alex, Matt, myself, and Matt's new catch Ashley gathered together to watch Hugh Jackman prance about with that lovely Aussie accent of his, and had a lovely time. Seriously though, Hugh Jackman was a fantastic host. He had two or three musical numbers, singing and dancing live, and he has a great voice, and incredible stage presence. Also, he made a big, epic shout-out to being Wolverine as the climax for his first number, and we were dumbstruck. Nothing interesting to report about any of the awards; Slumdog won 8 oscars, including best picture and director. I guess I'll go see it one of these days. More importantly, Ledger won Supporting Male. Good job, Academy.
After it ended, we played a lil' SF IV, (what else is there to do?) and Ashley, the new girl, was enthusiastic and charming. Matt seems euphoric, and they look really comfortable together. Bravah, Matt. Bravaaaah.
I'm in the Centre 'Caf at UVic, and I'm thinking about my future. I'm 80% decided on changing my English-History double-major into just a History Major. My English classes are fun, the profs are great, but I'm just not feeling the material. I was getting really excited about lit last semester, but it was for the wrong reasons. I loved placing the Romantics into the historical stream of the French Revolution, political upheaval, and grand warfare at the turn of the 19th century. I respect and admire the works of these poets, but it just isn't really my main area of interest. If I had a more poetic mind (something I often wish I possessed) I'd be in it for the long haul, but this is simply not the case. Forgive me, Wordsworth.
I'm going to visit an adviser on Wednesday, and i'll sort this mess out.
I've talked to Dan recently about the silly little imaginings that go on in my head, and how I inevitably began crafting a Tolkien-esque legend and history for the little world I drift off to while on the bus. He encouraged me to get it down in writing, make a project of it. While that prospect is certainly an exciting one, it would need a dramatic overhaul, as a lot of it began as pure, distilled silly, and is in need of refinement. Still, it'd be a lot of fun. If the other side-projects I have on the table don't begin to take shape in the near future, I'll look into it. Maybe you could start editing that damn podcast, Simon.
Bacon, hash browns, toast and eggs in the cafeteria. Pretty good for $5.50, I suppose.
I'm having a good time with it. Yesterday was also the 81st Academy Awards show, and I never get excited for it until the day of, when I can't look away. Ben, Alex, Matt, myself, and Matt's new catch Ashley gathered together to watch Hugh Jackman prance about with that lovely Aussie accent of his, and had a lovely time. Seriously though, Hugh Jackman was a fantastic host. He had two or three musical numbers, singing and dancing live, and he has a great voice, and incredible stage presence. Also, he made a big, epic shout-out to being Wolverine as the climax for his first number, and we were dumbstruck. Nothing interesting to report about any of the awards; Slumdog won 8 oscars, including best picture and director. I guess I'll go see it one of these days. More importantly, Ledger won Supporting Male. Good job, Academy.
After it ended, we played a lil' SF IV, (what else is there to do?) and Ashley, the new girl, was enthusiastic and charming. Matt seems euphoric, and they look really comfortable together. Bravah, Matt. Bravaaaah.
I'm in the Centre 'Caf at UVic, and I'm thinking about my future. I'm 80% decided on changing my English-History double-major into just a History Major. My English classes are fun, the profs are great, but I'm just not feeling the material. I was getting really excited about lit last semester, but it was for the wrong reasons. I loved placing the Romantics into the historical stream of the French Revolution, political upheaval, and grand warfare at the turn of the 19th century. I respect and admire the works of these poets, but it just isn't really my main area of interest. If I had a more poetic mind (something I often wish I possessed) I'd be in it for the long haul, but this is simply not the case. Forgive me, Wordsworth.
I'm going to visit an adviser on Wednesday, and i'll sort this mess out.
I've talked to Dan recently about the silly little imaginings that go on in my head, and how I inevitably began crafting a Tolkien-esque legend and history for the little world I drift off to while on the bus. He encouraged me to get it down in writing, make a project of it. While that prospect is certainly an exciting one, it would need a dramatic overhaul, as a lot of it began as pure, distilled silly, and is in need of refinement. Still, it'd be a lot of fun. If the other side-projects I have on the table don't begin to take shape in the near future, I'll look into it. Maybe you could start editing that damn podcast, Simon.
Bacon, hash browns, toast and eggs in the cafeteria. Pretty good for $5.50, I suppose.